


Amor Vincit Omnia

by syrupfactory



Series: Heaven & Earth [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Time, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance, So Married, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-06-29 23:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19840855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupfactory/pseuds/syrupfactory
Summary: After a messenger from hell fails to separate them, Aziraphale believes that the love he shares with Crowley is strong enough to protect them from harm. Crowley, on the other hand, is convinced that remaining on Earth is far too dangerous... Until they make a surprising discovery about their bond.





	Amor Vincit Omnia

**Author's Note:**

> I've been inspired by so many other wonderful fics in this fandom, it would be impossible to list them all. <3

_Thanks to[daryshkart](https://daryshkart.tumblr.com/post/187761114524/aziraphale-and-crowley-for-lovely-meowdejavu) on tumblr for creating this gorgeous commission! _

The sidewalk is slick from a morning rain, now reflective in the warm sunlight, as Crowley walks back to the bookshop, flowers in hand. Three things are making him particularly happy. First, he knows Aziraphale will smile and greet him with an embrace when he returns. It doesn’t matter if he’s out half the day or for five minutes (he’s experimented), the greeting will be the same. Second, Aziraphale will be genuinely touched by a tiny gesture like flowers—one of a million tiny gestures, if that’s what it takes—will probably blush a little bit, and then periodically smell them for the rest of the day. Third, they have absolutely no obligations for the foreseeable future aside from just … living. 

Indeed, the Earth has nearly completed a full revolution around the sun since the world didn’t end, since they saved each other’s lives, and not even a peep from either direction. He’d been worried at first, but Aziraphale has since coaxed him into relaxing for a while. Even if it’s temporary, he reasoned, they may as well enjoy themselves. They’ve earned it.

Crowley is just a block away from the shop when something stops him in his tracks. An awful tingle zips down his spine, too jarring to ignore. Glancing around, nothing is out of the ordinary that he can see, but _something_ is here and it’s something powerf— 

A figure cloaked in black is suddenly in front of him. He recognizes it at once as a wraith, a messenger of hell, though he’s never actually seen one before—the facelessness kind of gives it away. It is floating in his path, towering over him, rank with sulfur. 

“Out with it. What now?” he snaps. 

Giving no response, its clawed hand is suddenly grasping his wrist, painfully firm. His bundle of roses drops to the damp street.

At first it only holds him, his efforts to free himself entirely useless, and then the pain starts to spread—up his arm, across his chest, blooming through his body like a noxious weed. He cries out and struggles against it, but it’s no use. Soon it’s reached his neck, and then all at once he cannot see, cannot hear; he’s drowning in it, it’s pushing him down, far away from himself so that he’s cut off from the world. 

His last conscious thought is that he needs to tell Aziraphale to run.

///

Aziraphale has his nose deep in a book when he hears the door jingle and realizes Crowley must be back from his walk. Well, that or his second customer of the day, and he’s going to bet on Crowley. Either way, he marks his page and heads around the corner to greet. 

“Ah, you’re back!” he says cheerfully, coming forward. 

But then he stops. Something isn’t right. Crowley … isn’t right. His sunglasses are missing, and his expression is blank, like he doesn’t see him, like he’s looking straight through him. 

“Crowley?”

He gives no response, only stepping closer, his yellow eyes unblinking. 

“Oh, Crowley, no,” he mutters. 

Every one of Aziraphale’s internal alarms is blaring. He has known that there was a chance something like this would happen. Someone is using Crowley as a puppet, this he can plainly see; this is not _his_ Crowley, and he can make a strong guess as to their intentions. 

Crowley has come close enough now for Aziraphale to realize how profusely he’s sweating. But he will not run. Standing confident and true, he speaks again. 

“Crowley, listen to me. I know you’re in there. I know you can fight this.”

Even when Crowley reaches out and grabs his arm, Aziraphale stays put. Searing pain spreads up to his shoulder, and he realizes belatedly that his jacket has caught fire. 

“Crowley!” he begs, and he reaches out and places a kind hand on Crowley’s cheek, letting more hellfire climb up the other jacket sleeve. “Hear me! Feel me! You know me!”

With all his might, Aziraphale projects all the love he can possibly muster—divine and romantic and all of it—directly into the demon before him. He’s also burning, he knows, the fire is spreading over his body, he’s running out of time. But he’s made his choice. He will not give up. 

“You know me, my love. I’m not afraid. Come back to me.”

///

**_Six Months Ago_ **

“Crowley … darling,” Aziraphale was saying in a tone that was, perhaps, tinged with some forced sweetness. “This isn’t a complaint. But do you know that you’ve been kissing my right ear for _three hours_?”

Crowley smiled against the side of Aziraphale’s face. “Hmm. About time I moved to the left.”

“It feels wonderful dear, _ah_ , but ... hmm, I never would have taken you for such a glacial pace.”

Aziraphale’s tone was more playful than anything. Crowley, straddling him in what will thereafter become their shared bed, leaned back to meet his eyes. 

“Had we but world enough and time … Oh, wait, _we do_.”

Crowley resumed kissing him, moving now to the left side of his face. 

“Well then, if you’re going to get poetic about it— _oh_.” 

Crowley met his gaze again, a bit bemused by this impatience. “I would have thought that you, of anyone, would understand the need to savor something important. Especially the first time?”

Aziraphale’s expression softened a bt, a kind understanding warming his features. 

“Alright, I’m sorry. Savor away.”

“Not if I’m boring you.”

At that, Aziraphale sat up straighter and pulled Crowley to his lips, kissing him long and deep. The gesture stirred something in Crowley’s chest, and the feeling wasn’t purely biological. Through skin contact, Aziraphale can pour his love into Crowley like an endless stream into a bottomless vessel, and he’s doing that now. It’s radiant and beautiful and literally divine, and it always leaves Crowley feeling like he’s floating.

Crowley held Aziraphale’s face, returning the kiss, wishing desperately he could return more than just that. But he can’t share his own love directly. No matter how brightly it shines within him, there’s no way for him to pour it out. As a demon, he’s cut off. His final, hilarious punishment. So, he’d resolved to _show_ him in every other way he can, beginning with worshiping every centimeter of him.

“In six thousand years,” Aziraphale whispered when he pulled back, “I have never, not once, been _bored_ in your company.”

“Well, then,” Crowley said, sparing an awkward glance to the side. “I wouldn’t want to spoil my reputation, now would I?”

Shortly thereafter, they were making love for the first of many times. Crowley utterly lost himself to it, to the feeling of their two bodies entwined, the feeling of lips and fingers running across skin, their shared arousal and hunger for each other after so long, his own mind-numbing orgasm, all the while feeling Aziraphale’s rapturous love coursing through him, endlessly—Crowley responding with words, with half-whispers, giving thanks, giving all he can give, so that maybe he’s worthy of a fraction of what Aziraphale gives him. 

When they’d finished and he’d completely lost track of time, Crowley lay against Aziraphale’s bare chest, enveloped by the glow of his love, sighing contentedly to feel Aziraphale’s fingers running idly over his hair.

“Do you think we’re the first?” Crowley asked, love drunk and slurring. “Of our kind?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said warmly. “I daresay we’re singularly unique, my dear.” 

“Hard to imagine any other angel/demon couples shacking up,” Crowley agreed.

“That’s true,” Aziraphale replied, pausing for a beat, running his fingertips down the back of Crowely’s neck. “I wonder if any others have ever even _touched_. Really touched.”

“Hardly likely. It’d be dangerous for most, yeah?” Crowley asked, lifting up his head to look at him. 

Aziraphale looked thoughtful for a moment and then nodded. “With malicious intent, then it surely would be.”

Crowley scooted upward and planted a kiss on his cheek. “For a long time, I thought this might not be possible. No matter how much I wanted it.”

“But here we are,” Aziraphale said with a sigh, happy as ever.

“Here we are. A true singularity.”

Crowley sank back into his arms and they were quiet for a while. Outside, London was blanketed by snow, and sometime later, they would pull on their winter coats and go out into the world for supper. But first, they’d lie together in the cozy nest of sheets, basking in the glow of their truth.

/// 

**_Present Day_ **

Crowley’s ears are ringing, and he’s stumbling, his vision swimming, as he tries to make sense of his surroundings. After the wraith encounter, he’d been trapped in darkness, with nothing, until there came a faint glow and a voice calling out to him from somewhere. He’d know that voice and that light anywhere. So he called back, reached out for the light and found that he could follow it. 

And now he’s … standing in the bookshop. Yes, he’s made it back here. And something smells … burnt. 

Steadying himself, he turns, finally, and finds Aziraphale on the floor at his feet. Something like a gasp is wrenched from his lungs and he chokes on it, dropping to his knees at the sight: the mottled skin on Azraphale’s face and exposed shoulder, the patches of soot on his jacket, with holes where it’s been reduced to ashes. He’s unconscious. 

This is not how this morning was meant to go.

“Aziraphale,” he manages, reaching out a hand but suddenly afraid to touch. Afraid of the damage he’s already caused. 

Quickly, with focus greater than any he’s ever mustered, he heals him, undoes the damage, pulls the wraith’s hellfire back into himself. He doesn’t stop until it’s all perfect, watches the skin smooth out and the jacket fibers weave themselves back together, good as new.

Aziraphale stirs, then, and looks at him. 

“Crowley,” he says with a smile. The same smile he would have given him had he turned up with flowers. 

He sits up and holds a hand out, expecting Crowley to help him stand. But Crowley is frozen. Aziraphale gives him a curious look and stands on his own. 

“Crowley, I’m so proud of you.”

He reaches out for him once more, but Crowley backs away, averting his eyes from the confused flash of hurt that passes over Aziraphale’s face. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale is saying. “Listen to me. Everything is alright.” 

Crowley can’t respond to that. Sometimes, in his most sinister moments, when he’s managed to be thoroughly evil, he’s pictured himself in serpent form, coiled in a corner, fangs dripping sulfuric venom, ready to strike. Yes, that’s who he’s always been, that’s his true nature, deep down— 

_"You_ didn't do this,” Aziraphale is saying, keeping a cautious distance for the moment. “Don’t let them poison your mind.”

Crowley turns but doesn’t look him in the eyes.

“Why are you so calm?” he asks, rage brewing in his chest. “I almost— They tried to USE me to KILL you!”

“And they failed,” Azraphale says, absurdly confident. “I didn’t tell you this, but I had some notion that something like this might transpire. You see, a while back, I dreamt that you came to me, but you weren’t yourself. It was after that conversation we had about demons touching angels with malicious intent, in fact... Of course, I didn't know whether the dream was prophetic at the time, but I devised a plan just in case. I _knew_ I’d be able to reach you. I believed in you. I knew you’d hear me and break free.”

Crowley is looking at him now, and he can only stare for a moment before the rage boils over. 

“Plan? _This_ was your _plan_? That’s about the stupidest fucking plan I’ve ever heard of! Are you fucking serious, it was your plan?!”

“Crowley,” he pleads, stepping toward him again. 

“No,” Crowley says, still avoiding him. “You should have told me... Or run. Or stopped me!”

“Stopping you is precisely what I did! Why are you moving away from me?”

“What if it hadn’t worked?” Crowley demands. “What if your _plan_ wasn’t so lucky?”

“Then I _might as well_ be dead.” 

Aziraphale’s voice and expression are stone cold for the first time in the exchange, and they both stop in their tracks. 

“It was a calculated risk,” he goes on, a bit softer. “If you were lost to me, then I'd have nothing left.”

At the whisper of pain in Aziraphale’s voice, Crowley’s anger evaporates and leaves bitter shame and fear in its wake. He doesn’t step away when Aziraphale approaches this time, but he flinches to feel him take his hand. 

“It’s alright, see?” Aziraphale says, pressing his lips to Crowley’s fingers. Sparks of love spring forth. “You’d never hurt me. It’s alright. We’re alright.”

Crowley gives in and lets himself sink into Aziraphale’s arms, resting his forehead on his shoulder. Aziraphale embraces him, stroking his hair and pouring more love into him than Crowley feels he has any right to receive. He realizes that Aziraphale’s jacket is wet before he knows why. 

/// 

**_Six Months and One Day Ago_ **

“That’s got to be the most bloody picturesque London winter I’ve _ever_ seen.”

Aziraphale turned with a start and found Crowley standing in his shop for the first time in months—black overcoat dusted with snow.

“Crowley!” he said, bursting with excitement, before he remembered that he had resolved to keep this casual. “I’m, uh…. I’m delighted you’ve returned.”

“Any word from—?” Crowley asked, jabbing his finger upward and raising his eyebrows, shedding his coat on a chair. 

“Oh, no, nothing,” Aziraphale replied. “You?”

Crowley shook his head. “Silence from below as well.”

 _We’re on our side,_ Aziraphale wanted to say. He had waited for this day ever since Crowley … vanished. One day, the two of them were getting on just fine, better than ever, and the next, he’d gone. Left London, Aziraphale assumed, since he never even saw him in passing. They’d never needed to explain those things in the past, popping in and out of each other’s lives at random, but Aziraphale had hoped things would be different now. After the world hadn’t ended. After they’d each taken such huge risks for the other. And perhaps he’d leaned into that assumption a little too much. Perhaps he’d been a little overbearing, or overly affectionate. Clingy, even, if he’s totally honest. Maybe that was why Crowley needed space.

“I have something to show you,” Aziraphale blurted out, rising to his feet and beckoning Crowley to follow. “A surprise of sorts. Well, more of an idea. Just a thought. A concept? Anyway, if you don’t like it, it’s no matter at all.” 

He stopped rambling when they reached the new addition to the shop, a separate nook off to one side with a sales counter and shelves of its own. It was the best plan he’d come up with in the past couple months of solitude. He hoped it was a good one.

“Ta-da!” he said. 

Crowley looked at the new nook and then back, confused. “What’s this?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking. A lot of bookshops have a music section, you see, but being that I don’t know music the way I know books, I’ve never thought to add one. But _you_ know music! And if you were, well, if you were looking for something to occupy your time, which I now realize I’ve not bothered to ask you before all this, you could … work here? As a respected colleague, I mean.”

Crowley was looking at him now the way he looked when Aziraphale did magic tricks. Aziraphale’s heart sank a little; it _was_ pretty silly to imagine.

“I’m sorry, I’m rambling. Tell me it’s a ridiculous idea and I’ll make it all disappear and we can go open a bottle of wine, how’s that?”

Crowley turned, then, and seemed to be taking in the setup: attractively arranged shelves, ideally sized for various music formats, all currently empty. Aziraphale steeled himself, half-expecting Crowley to double over in laughter and say something like _Good one_ , and then Aziraphale would have to pretend that, _Oh yes, the whole thing was a joke after all, how delightfully absurd_. 

Instead, Crowley snapped his fingers and in a blink, the shelves were filled. (Aziraphale would later learn that Crowley’s carefully curated selection of albums included many rare finds, mint edition collectibles and autographed copies and the like. And it would, indeed, turn out to be a nice addition to the shop.)

Aziraphale gasped, a hand flying to his mouth. He realized in that instant that he’d never really expected Crowely to _like_ the idea, as much as he’d hoped for that outcome. It was more about the gesture of the thing. A way to ask him to stay without asking.

“Might as well give it a go,” Crowley said with a shrug. “To occupy my time and all that.”

“Right, yes,” Aziraphale replied, clearing his throat and suppressing his desire to rush forward and embrace his friend. “Well, I’m very glad you’re open to it... As long as you’re in London, of course.”

Crowley removed his sunglasses and set them on the now-official music counter. He stepped forward, then, and did the last thing Aziraphale expected: He apologized.

“I’m sorry I skipped town, alright?” Crowley said, placing a surprising hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “This is where I want to be.”

Aziraphale felt his facade unravel, both at the gesture and the fact that his hurt and hope had clearly been written all over his face despite his better efforts to appear at ease.

“Was it anything I—?”

“No,” Crowely said, cutting him off. “Nothing at all. I just had some … things to sort out. Clear my head, so to speak.”

“Ah,” came Aziraphale’s reply, and he had to look down, now, because this was going so much more wonderfully than he’d dared to hope for. 

“You’re going to be sick of me now, you’ll see so much of me,” Crowley mused. 

“Oh, my dear,” he replied, uncaring now of his obvious elation. “I can assure you that’s quite impossible.”

Seeing something like doubt pass over Crowley’s face, even as he smirked, Aziraphale felt the need to prove himself. Throwing all caution and pretense to the wind, he took Crowley’s hand in his own and did something he’d long imagined: He shared his truth. All of it. Every ounce of his love for Crowley, unconditional and romantic and platonic and carnal and all of it, he poured right into him, unfiltered. Doing so was a great relief, truly. Nothing left unsaid. Not anymore. 

“Tell me. Does it _feel_ like I could ever tire of you?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathed, brow furrowed. “That’s— You never said—” 

“No, I didn’t. But I want you to know now. You should know.”

Crowley glanced at where their hands were interlocked and then back at Aziraphale’s face. “You can feel me, too, can’t you, angel? Tell me you can feel it from me.”

Aziraphale blinked. “I’m … afraid not? I assumed that was a demon thing. Or maybe an angel thing. Maybe both.”

Angels could share love with anyone they chose; it made perfect sense to Aziraphale that a demon would lose that ability. But he was sorry to be the bearer of bad news. 

All of the sudden, Crowley cupped Aziraphale’s face in his hands, his bright eyes pleading. “You can’t feel _anything_?”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said softly, shaking his head. “But if you _tell_ me, Crowley, I’ll believe you.”

/// 

**_Present Day_**

Any other day, Crowley would be on cloud fucking nine to be where he is now, lying against Aziraphale’s chest, enveloped in both his arms and his love, breathing in the scent of him, feeling kind fingers run down his back. Aziraphale had taken him straight to bed and vanished their shirts—not to make love, not this time, but to simply hold Crowley until he _felt like himself_ again.

Any other day, it would be working. But right now, for all the beautiful comfort Aziraphale’s love is bringing him, an unrelenting dark pit twists his gut. 

“Aziraphale,” he starts, knowing his voice is strained. 

Aziraphale hushes him and strokes the side of his face. “You needn’t speak yet, dear. Just breathe and feel me. This will pass.”

Crowley lifts his head to look at him. “Angel, we don’t have _time_ for this. We have to go, now, while we have the window. We had a good run, but now we know it's not safe.”

Aziraphale’s eyes make his disagreement clear before he speaks, and the pit in Crowley’s stomach plunges deeper. This is going to be a battle.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts, sitting up to face him properly. “Can’t you see it's quite the opposite? They tried to come between us, and they failed. They failed _because_ you love me. Because _I_ love you. Our love is too strong, that’s what we know now. We’re not just unique; we’re unbreakable and unstoppable.”

Aziraphale is practically vibrating with excitement, his eyes alive. Crowley hates to take that away from him, he does, but he’s done taking chances. 

“I do love you,” Crowley replies, keeping his tone gentle this time, “you know that. But this wasn’t us facing the ultimate challenge and prevailing. We got _lucky_. They sent a wraith to use me to carry a message. We managed to avoid the worst outcome, but their message was still delivered. They’re not going to give up after one go. That’s not how this works.”

“A wraith?” Aziraphale asks, curious. “Not a demon.”

Crowley nods, already wary of what he’s going to hear next.

“Ha!” Aziraphale laughs, somehow happier than before. “See there? They couldn’t even get one of the henchmen to face us; they had to summon their ancient couriers. They must already suspect that they’re outmatched—”

Crowley shakes his head as Aziraphale goes on, shutting his eyes and taking a slow breath in frustration. “That’s the opposite of what I’m saying.”

Aziraphale presses a kiss to his cheek. “I hear you, Crowley. I do. But I don’t see it that way. I think we’re right where we’re meant to be. Where we were always meant to end up. _On our own side._ They’ll never take you from me. They can’t control us, not anymore. We’re free.”

“I wish I could believe that.” 

“You don’t have to. I’ve enough faith for both of us.”

“Ugh, _faith_ ,” Crowley grunts, and then he realizes. “Oh, Aziraphale, no.”

Aziraphale’s smile is a little too innocent. 

“No. Don’t tell me you— You don’t think this is all part of The Plan, do you?”

“Well, suppose for a moment that it was. Wouldn’t _that_ be beautiful? That we were always meant to end up here together? After everything?”

Crowley lets his head drop to his hands, sitting on the edge of the bed now. How is he supposed to get through to Aziraphale when this is a matter of divine fate in his eyes?

“What if it had been reversed?” Crowley tries, standing up and pacing beside the bed. “What if they’d used you to get to me, to douse me in holy water and what have you, made you open your eyes and find me half-boiled on the floor? Hmm?”

He’s being overly cruel now, but he needs him to grasp the reality of the situation. 

Aziraphale hesitates to respond, and Crowley knows exactly what he’s thinking: _Heaven doesn’t take away free will._ By God and Satan and whomever, if Aziraphale says that out loud instead of responding to the damned question, Crowley is going to absolutely lose his fucking mind. 

“Well, I’d _need_ you,” Aziraphale says instead, climbing off the bed and standing alongside him. “I’d need to know that you were alright, and I’d need … well, this.”

A genuine, and wholly unhelpful, response. 

“So, what next?” Crowley asks, pacing. “We go off and exchange rings in Regent’s Park? Make a public spectacle of ourselves?”

His tone is heavily sarcastic, maybe even bitter. Aziraphale actually looks hurt this time. 

“That sounds … lovely to me?”

“Of _course_ it does, that’s the _point_ ,” Crowley whines, crumpling into himself. “You _don’t_ hear me.”

“I do. I understand why you’re afraid. But I’m asking you to believe. In us. To have courage.”

Crowley’s head is spinning. For a second, he regrets not staying in bed longer, letting Aziraphale hold him. But he needs to get him on the same page. Rounding the corner of the bed and taking his hands, Crowley drops to his knees out of both fatigue and desperation, needing more than ever to _reach_ him—to get through that stubborn optimism. 

“Angel, I’m literally begging you. It’s not that I don’t want to believe. Everything you’ve said, it’s beautiful. But we can’t risk it all on faith and courage. I’m sorry, but we can’t. We really have to go this time. Together. Because they’re not going to turn a blind eye. That’s not their style. This is our one shot to make it out of here alive. I love you more than anything in the universe, and I’m not going to let them steal that from us.”

Aziraphale’s expression has shifted into something that looks like shock, tears pooling in his eyes, and Crowley kisses his hand in apologetic relief. 

“Crowley,” comes Aziraphale’s broken response. 

“I know. It’s not what you—”

“Crowley!” he shouts this time. “I can _feel_ you!”

“What?” Crowley asks, blinking. 

Aziraphale laughs through his tears, kneeling to be level with him, pulling him into an embrace. “Do you feel that? It’s all you, darling.”

Crowley is confused for a second before he realizes that Aziraphale’s love isn’t pouring out of him like usual; he’s pulled back to a slow trickle. But Crowley’s is rushing out of him at the speed of light, like a door has finally swung open within him—no longer locked in the dark. It’s found a path outward.

“Oh, my love, it’s so beautiful,” Aziraphale is saying next to his ear. 

“How...” Crowley mumbles, tears falling, scrambling for words, asking a question he realizes he already knows the answer to. It was Aziraphale, of course. His rescue strategy had tapped into something he never expected. 

They move to kiss each other at the same moment and can’t seem to stop for a while. Aziraphale lets his own love flow free and true, and Crowley’s responds to it, both growing stronger and brighter until they’re engulfed in it, until nothing else exists. It is pure and perfect—the most powerful force in the universe. 

When Crowley opens his eyes, he can only see the face before him, surrounded by light. 

“Nothing will ever sever this bond, you see?” Aziraphale says, beaming. 

“Unbreakable and unstoppable,” Crowley relents. 

“Love never fails.”

“Alright, no need to get smug about it,” Crowley says, though he can’t fight his own smile.

They kiss again, their love still pouring out in an endless, self-contained loop. 

“I always wanted you to know,” Crowley pleads. 

“I never doubted you, darling. But this? This is our destiny.”

///

It’s not much of a spectacle, but they do exchange rings in Regent’s Park, just the two of them. Crowley kisses Aziraphale just after, their love flowing steady and beautiful, and Azirpahle laughs against him. He’s happy they’re really doing this, really married, and especially happy that it was all Crowley’s idea. 

As they walk through the gardens, arms linked, Aziraphale can’t help but notice that the flowers look exceptionally perfect—bright blooms arranged in colorful shapes and spilling over the edges of statue vases just so.

“What a perfect day,” Aziraphale remarks.

“Where to next?” his husband asks.

“Oh, I rather thought that was obvious.”

They face each other. Just as Aziraphale says “sex,” Crowley says “lunch.”

“Oooh, _lunch_!"

“S-SEX?” Crowley sputters. “Aziraphale, there are _children_ out here!”

Just then, something in the air shifts. They both feel it. Aziraphale tightens his grasp on Crowley’s arm.

“Hello, traitors,” comes a voice behind them. 

They turn together, joining hands, and find Micheal and Dagon facing them. 

“Did you think no one would figure it out?” Dagon speaks first, looking from Crowley to Aziraphale and back again. “That little stunt you pulled?”

“Your ruse is up,” Michael chimes in. “Both head offices are calling you in for immediate _report_.”

Their words are stern, but Aziraphale can’t help but notice how starkly different this greeting is than the last time they were abruptly apprehended in a park. Both the angel and the demon are keeping their distance, appearing alone, though they must have them quietly surrounded. He knew the failure of the wraith would come as a shock. 

“Unfortunately,” Crowley speaks in response, “we have a prior engagement. Won’t be able to make it back in until... Oh, never.”

“Do you really want to do this the hard way?” Michael asks, directing the question at Aziraphale. 

In response, he looks at Crowley, who looks back at him with a shrug and nods. Aziraphale nods back, and they both share the full force of their love into each other, until they’re enveloped in light.

Michael and Dagon look annoyed. Someone else is clapping. 

“Bravo,” comes Gabriel’s signature sarcasm as he steps into view. “Nice little show. Really, very cute. Now, your pathetic games are over, and you’re both fucking dead.”

Henchmen from both sides appear behind him—that’s more like it—and the angels move to grab Aziraphale. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen, but he believes. He believes. He believes. 

They smack into the glow as though it’s a physical shield. A few fall over backwards, bewildered. 

Gabriel looks on in growing alarm as the demon henchmen have their go, rushing toward Crowley only to cry out in pain and retreat when they make contact with the light. 

“What … _is_ that?” Beelzebub asks first, having appeared next to Dagon. 

“That’s _love_ , bitch,” Crowley answers, beaming.

Aziraphale looks at Gabriel. “Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

“That’s impossible,” Michael mutters. 

Lavender eyes full of rage, Gabriel stomps forward and attempts to lunge at them himself, only to tumble awkwardly to the ground, grunting. It’s delicious. 

“This _isn’t_ over,” Gabriel says, red in the face, righting himself and glaring at Aziraphale. 

“Oh, on the contrary,” Crowley says with an air of mock-cordiality. “I rather think it is. You can all run along home now and tell mummy and daddy that we’re not your friends anymore. Ta-ta!”

“In other words,” Aziraphale adds, “fuck off.”

The exodus is swift but satisfying, Gabriel flipping them two middle fingers and several others just rolling their eyes. 

When everything has settled and it’s just the two of them again, standing in the park on a perfect afternoon, they let their glow recede back to a less dramatic level. 

“Right… Where were we?” Aziraphale says with an overly casual flair. “Oh, yes, _lunch_.”

“Yes, lunch,” Crowley says, following his lead as they continue down the sidewalk. “I’m sure I can guess where you’ll pick.” 

“I do believe a table is ready for us just this second.”

“And perhaps, when we’re finished, the honeymoon suite will miraculously open up.”

Aziraphale gasps. “Oh! Crowley. I should have known you’d be the romantic one.”

“Awwww. Shut up.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading Part 1 of this trilogy! This fic can be reblogged on tumblr [here](https://meowdejavu.tumblr.com/post/186425880308/amor-vincit-omina-aziraphalecrowley-5k-words).


End file.
